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  ‘Let’s go to the Garibaldi,’ said Apthorpe. ‘I won’t sit at the same table with that man. You must dine with me as my guest.’

  There, in the steam of minestrone, Apthorpe’s face became a healthier colour and strengthened by Barolo his despair gave place to defiance. Pelecci leant very near while Apthorpe rehearsed his wrongs. The conversation was abstruse. ‘Thunder-box’, an invention of this capable officer’s, unjustly misappropriated by a superior, was clearly a new weapon of value.

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Apthorpe, ‘it would be any good appealing to the Army Council, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You could not expect them to meet a case like this with purely open minds. I don’t suggest positive prejudice but, after all, it’s in, their interest to support authority if they possibly can. If they found a loophole...’

  ‘You think there are loopholes in your case?’

  ‘Quite frankly, old man, I do. In a court of honour, of course, the thing would be different, but in its purely legal aspect one has to admit that the Brigadier is within his rights in putting any part of the brigade premises out of bounds. It is also true that I installed my thunder-box without permission. That’s just the sort of point the Army Council would jump on.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Guy, ‘it’s arguable that since the thunder-box has not risen to the rank of brigadier, it is itself at the moment out of bounds.’

  ‘You’ve got it, Crouchback. You’ve hit the nail right on the head.’ He goggled across the table with frank admiration. ‘There’s such a thing, you know, as being too near to a problem. Here I’ve been turning this thing over and, over in my mind till I felt quite ill with worry. I knew I needed an outside opinion; anybody’s, just someone who wasn’t personally implicated. I’ve no doubt I’d have come to the same solution myself sooner or later, but I might have worried half the night. I owe you a real debt of gratitude, old man.’

  More food arrived and more wine. Giuseppe Pelecci was out of his depth. ‘Thunder-box’, it now appeared, was the code-name of some politician of importance but no military rank, held concealed in the district. He would pass the information on for what it was worth; keener brains than his should make what they could of it. He had no ambition to rise in his profession. He was doing nicely out of the restaurant. He had worked up the good-will of the place himself. Politics bored him and battles frightened him. It was only in order to escape military service that he had come here in the first place.

  ‘And afterwards a special zabaglione, gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Apthorpe. ‘Yes, rather. Let’s have all you’ve got.’ And to Guy: ‘You must understand that this is my dinner.’

  So Guy had understood from the first; this reminder, Guy thought, was perhaps a clumsy expression of gratitude. It was in fact a sly appeal for further services.

  ‘I think we’ve cleared up the whole legal aspect very neatly,’ Apthorpe continued. ‘But there’s now the question of action. How are we going to get the thunder-box out?’

  ‘The way you got it in, I suppose.’

  ‘Not so easy, old man. There’s wheels within wheels. Halberdier Crock and I carried it there. How can we carry it away without going out of bounds? One can’t order a man to perform an unlawful action. You must remember that. Besides I shouldn’t really care to ask him. He was distinctly uncooperative about the whole undertaking.’

  ‘Couldn’t you lasso it from the door?’

  ‘Pretty ticklish, old man. Besides, my lariat is with the rest of my gear at the Commodore’s.’

  ‘Couldn’t you draw it out with a magnet?’

  ‘I say, are you trying to be funny, Crouchback?’

  ‘It was just a suggestion.’

  ‘Not a very practical one, if you don’t mind my saying so. No. Someone must go in and get it.’

  ‘Out of bounds?’

  ‘Someone who doesn’t know, or at least who the Brigadier doesn’t know knows, that the hut is out of bounds. If he was caught he could always plead that he didn’t see the notice in the dark.’

  ‘You mean me?’

  ‘Well, you’re more or less the obvious person, aren’t you, old man?’

  ‘All right,’ said Guy, ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Apthorpe, greatly relieved.

  They finished their dinner. Apthorpe grumbled about the bill but he paid it. They returned to Kut-al-Imara. There was no one about. Apthorpe kept cave and Guy, without much difficulty, dragged the object into the open.

  ‘Where to now?’

  ‘That’s the question. Where do you think will be the best place?’

  ‘The latrines.’

  ‘Really, old man, this is scarcely the time or place for humour.’

  ‘I was only thinking of Chesterton’s observation, “Where is the best place to hide a leaf? In a tree.”’

  ‘I don’t get you, old man. It would be jolly awkward up a tree, from every point of view.’

  ‘Well, let’s not take it far. It’s bloody heavy.’

  ‘There’s a potting shed I found when I was making my recce.’

  They took it there, fifty yards away. It was less commodious than the hut, but Apthorpe said it would do. As they were returning from their adventure he paused in the path and said with unusual warmth: ‘I shan’t forget this evening’s work, Crouchback. Thank you very much.’

  ‘And thank you for the dinner.’

  ‘That wop did pile it on, didn’t he?’

  After a few more steps Apthorpe said: ‘Look here, old man, if you’d care to use the thunder-box, too, it’s all right with me.’

  It was a moment of heightened emotion; an historic moment, had Guy recognized it, when in their complicated relationship Apthorpe came nearest to love and trust. It passed, as such moments do between Englishmen.

  ‘It’s very good of you but I’m quite content as I am.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Apthorpe, greatly relieved.

  Thus Guy stood high in Apthorpe’s favour and became with him joint custodian of the thunder-box.

  3

  IN full retrospect all the last weeks of March resolved themselves into the saga of the chemical closet. Apthorpe soon forgot his original motive for installing it.

  He was no longer driven by fear of infection. His right of property was at stake. Waiting to fall in, on the morning after the first translation, Apthorpe drew Guy aside. Their new comradeship was on a different plane from frank geniality; they were fellow conspirators now. ‘It’s still there.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Untouched.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I think, old man, that in the circumstances we had better not be seen talking together too much.’

  Later, as they went into the mess for luncheon Guy had the odd impression that someone in the crowd was attempting to hold his hand. He looked about him and saw Apthorpe near, with averted face, talking with great emphasis to Captain Sanders. Then he realized that a note was being passed to him.

  Apthorpe made for a place at table as far as possible from his. Guy opened the screw of paper and read: ‘The notice has been taken down from the hut. Unconditional surrender?’

  Not until tea-time did Apthorpe consider it safe to speak.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve any more to worry about. The Brig. has given us best.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like him.’

  ‘Oh, he’s unscrupulous enough for anything. I know that. But he has his dignity to consider.’

  Guy did not wish to upset Apthorpe’s new, gleeful mood, but he doubted whether these adversaries had an identical sense of dignity. Next day it was apparent that they had not.

  Apthorpe arrived for parade (under the new regime there was half an hour’s drill and physical training every morning) with a face of horror. He fell in next to Guy. Again there was an odd inter-fumbling of fingers and Guy found himself holding a message. He rea
d it at the first stand-easy while Apthorpe turned ostentatiously away. ‘Must speak to you alone first opportunity. Gravest developments.’

  An opportunity came half-way through the morning.

  ‘The man’s mad. A dangerous, certifiable maniac. I don’t know what I ought to do about it.’

  ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘He came within an inch of killing me, that’s all. If I hadn’t been wearing my steel helmet I shouldn’t be here to tell you. He caught me with a bloody great flower-pot, full of earth and a dead geranium, square on the top of my head. That’s what he did this morning.’

  ‘He threw it at you?’

  ‘It was on top of the potting-shed door.’

  ‘Why were you wearing your tin-hat?’

  ‘Instinct, old man. Self-preservation.’

  ‘But you said last night you thought the whole thing was over. Apthorpe, do you always wear your tin-hat on the thunder-box?’

  ‘All this is irrelevant. The point is that this man simply isn’t responsible. It’s a very serious matter for someone in his position – and ours. A time may come when he holds our lives in his hands. What ought I to do?’

  ‘Move the box again.’

  ‘And not report the matter?’

  ‘Well, there’s your dignity to consider.’

  ‘You mean there are people who might think it funny?’

  ‘Awfully funny.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Apthorpe. ‘I hadn’t considered that side of the question.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell me the truth about the tin-hat.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, I have been wearing it lately. I suppose it really boils down to home-sickness, old man. The helmet has rather the feel of a solar topee, if you see what I mean. It makes the thunder-box more homely.’

  ‘You don’t start out wearing it?’

  ‘No, under my arm.’

  ‘And when do you put it on, before or after lowering the costume? I must know.’

  ‘On the threshold, as it happens. Very luckily for me this morning. But, you know, really, old man, I don’t quite get you. Why all the interest?’

  ‘I must visualize the scene, Apthorpe. When we are old men, memories of things like this will be our chief comfort.’

  ‘Crouchback, there are times when you talk almost as though you found it funny.’

  ‘Please don’t think that, Apthorpe. I beg you, think anything but that.’

  Already after so brief a reconciliation Apthorpe was getting suspicious. He would have liked to be huffy but did not dare. He was pitted against a ruthless and resourceful enemy and must hold fast to Guy or go down.

  ‘Well, what is our next move?’ he asked.

  That night they crept out to the potting-shed and Apthorpe in silence showed with his torch the broken shards, the scattered mould and the dead geranium of that morning’s great fright. In silence he and Guy lifted the box and bore it as they had planned, back to its original home in the games-hut.

  Next day, the Brigadier appeared at first parade.

  ‘ATM 24, as no doubt you all know, recommends the use of games for training in observation and field-craft. This morning, gentlemen, you will play such a game. Somewhere about these grounds has been concealed an antiquated field latrine, no doubt left here as valueless by the former occupants of the camp. It looks like a plain square box. Work singly. The first officer to find it will report to me. Fall out.’

  ‘His effrontery staggers me,’ said Apthorpe. ‘Crouchback, guard the shed. I will draw off the hunt.’

  New strength had come to Apthorpe. He was master of the moment. He strode off purposefully towards the area of coal bunkers and petrol dump and, sure enough, the Brigadier was soon seen to follow behind him. Guy made deviously for the games-hut and sauntered near it. Twice other seekers approached and Guy said: ‘I’ve just looked in there. Nothing to see.’

  Presently the bugle recalled them. The Brigadier received the ‘nil report’, mounted his motor-cycle and drove away scowling ominously but without a word; he did not reappear at all that day.

  ‘A bad loser, old man,’ said Apthorpe.

  But next day the Out of Bounds notice was back on the shed.

  As Guy foresaw, those mad March days and nights of hide-and-seek drained into a deep well of refreshment in his mind, but in retrospect the detail of alternate ruse and counter-ruse faded and grew legendary. He never again smelled wet laurel, or trod among pine needles, without reliving those encumbered night prowls with Apthorpe, those mornings of triumph or disappointment. But the precise succession of episodes, indeed their very number, faded and were lost among later, less childlike memories.

  The climax came in Holy Week at the very end of the course. The Brigadier had been in London for three days on the business of their next move. The thunder-box stood in a corner of the playing field, unhoused but well hidden between an elm tree and a huge roller. There for the three days Apthorpe enjoyed undisputed rights of property.

  The Brigadier returned in alarmingly high spirits. He had bought some trick glasses at a toy-shop which, when raised, spilled their contents down the drinker’s chin, and these he secretly distributed round the table before dinner. After dinner there was a long session of Housey-housey. When he had called the last house he said: ‘Gentlemen, everyone except the B.M. and I goes on leave tomorrow. We meet under canvas in the lowlands of Scotland where you will have ample space to put into practice the lessons you have learned here. Details of the move will be posted as soon as the B.M. has sweated them out. You will particularly notice that officers’ baggage and equipment is defined by a scale laid down at the War House. Those limits will be strictly observed. I think that’s all, isn’t it, B.M.? Oh, no, one other thing. You are all improperly dressed. You’ve been promoted as from this morning. Get those second pips up before leaving camp.’

  That night there was singing in the dormitories:

  ‘This time tomorrow I shall be

  Far from this Academee.’

  Leonard improvised

  ‘No more TEWTs and no more drill,

  No night ops to cause a chill.’

  ‘I say,’ said Guy to Apthorpe. ‘That scale of equipment won’t allow for your gear.’

  ‘I know, old man. It’s very worrying.’

  ‘And the thunder-box.’

  ‘I shall find a place for it. Somewhere quite safe, a crypt, a vault, somewhere like that where I shall know it’s waiting for me until the end of the war.’

  ‘No more swamps through which to creep,

  No more lectures to make me sleep.’

  The cheerful voices reached the room marked ‘Bde. HQ’ where the Brigadier was at work with his brigade major. ‘That reminds me,’ he said, ‘I’ve some unfinished business to attend to outside.’

  Next morning as soon as the sun touched the unshaded window of Paschendael, Apthorpe was up jabbing his shoulder straps with a pair of nail scissors. Then he tricked himself out as a lieutenant. He nothing common did or mean on their morning of departure. His last act before leaving the dormitory was a friendly one; he offered to lend Guy a pair of stars from a neat leather stud-box which he now revealed to be full of such adornments and of crowns also. Then before Guy had finished shaving, Apthorpe, correctly dressed and bearing his steel helmet under his arm, set out for his corner of the playing field.

  The spot was not a furlong away. In less than five minutes an explosion rattled the windows of the schoolhouse. Various jolly end-of-term voices rose from the dormitories: ‘Air raid’; ‘Take cover’; ‘Gas’.

  Guy buckled his belt and hurried out to what he knew must be the scene of the disaster. Wisps of smoke were visible. He crossed the playing field. At first there was no sign of Apthorpe.

  Then he came upon him, standing, leaning against the elm, wearing his steel helmet, fumbling with his trouser buttons and gazing with dazed horror on the wreckage which lay all round the roller.

  ‘I say, are you hurt?’

  ‘
Who is that? Crouchback? I don’t know. I simply don’t know, old man.’

  Of the thunder-box there remained only a heap of smoking wood, brass valves, pinkish chemical powder scattered many yards, and great jags of patterned china.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, old man. I just sat down. There was a frightful bang and the next thing I knew I was on all fours on the grass, right over there.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Guy asked again.

  ‘Shock,’ said Apthorpe. ‘I don’t feel at all the thing.’

  Guy looked more closely at the wreckage. It was plain enough from his memories of the last lecture what had happened.

  Apthorpe removed his steel helmet, recovered his cap, straightened his uniform, put up a hand to assure himself that his new stars were still in place. He looked once more on all that remained of his thunder-box; the mot juste, thought Guy.

  He seemed too dazed for grief.

  Guy was at a loss for words of condolence.

  ‘Better come back to breakfast.’

  They turned silently towards the house.

  Apthorpe walked unsteadily across the wet, patchy field with his eyes fixed before him.

  On the steps he paused once and looked back.

  There was more of high tragedy than of bitterness in the epitaph he spoke.

  ‘Biffed.’

  4

  GUY had considered going to Downside for Holy Week but decided instead on Matchet, The Marine Hotel was still crowded but there was now no sense of bustle. Management and servants had settled down to the simple policy of doing less than they had done before, for rather more money. A notice board hung in the hall. Except that they began: ‘Guests are respectfully reminded …’, ‘Guests are respectfully requested …’ , ‘Guests are regretfully informed …’, the announcements were curiously like military orders and each proclaimed some small curtailment of amenity.

  ‘Seems to me this place is going off rather,’ said Tickeridge, who now wore the badges of lieutenant-colonel.

  ‘I’m sure they’re doing their best,’ said Mr Crouchback.

  ‘I notice they’ve put up the prices too.’